Stone Cold
by naughtsandcrosses
Summary: Sansa could still hear his voice, the roughness of his hands, and how time slowed down when he visited her bedchambers at night. He hadn't just made her his, ripped her resolve like her torn dresses, or left purple bruises on her wrists that continued to burn after they healed back to her naturally pale complexion. He made her numb. He made her indifferent. He made her stone cold.
1. Sansa

Note: This work begins during the finale of season six, therefore, if you are not caught up, do follow this story for later reading, catch up on the show, and come back. That was your spoiler warning. I took the first parts of the dialogue word for word from the show, therefore it is not mine, but Sansa's thoughts are. I have yet to decide if I will turn this into a multi-chapter affair, delving into my personal thoughts on how things in Winterfell should progress. Maybe this'll turn into my season six and beyond continuation into some season seven predictions and whatnot. I wanted to write in Sansa's point of view because I love her character arc, from hating her in the first two seasons or so, to tolerance, to adoration. This is my first time writing a Game of Thrones fic, so please do be kind. I am no GRRM, only but a lowly fan obsessed with his creations.

With all that said, I own nothing, I know nothing, and these are just my thoughts and interpretations.

* * *

 _Sansa_

Sansa took great pleasure at hearing the sound of freshly fallen snow crack beneath her boots as she walked along the ramparts of her home once again, for this time she did not have the same fear she felt walking through the familiar courtyards of Winterfell in the weeks past. There were no flayed men banners hanging from the edge of the castle walls – the direwolf sigil rippled as the cold winds of the North bit through the stone. There was no Ramsay Bolton to plague her days, only to haunt her dreams and soon become a distant memory. His words echoed in her ears, still ringing from the screeches that fell out of his mouth as his starving hounds turned on him: _"You can't kill me, I'm a part of you now,"_ a phrase infused with the smooth tone of ambiguity, something Ramsay was always so fluent in. It was true – Sansa knew in her heart that he had tarnished her, not just in the matter of virtue, but in the matter of her soul. She had let the hounds eat him alive not just because he deserved it, but because she had enjoyed seeing Ramsay at a deadly disadvantage, one that cost him his life, as he had done so many times before to the maidens he had hunted. She had enjoyed hearing the shrieks of a dying man being devoured by his own beasts. _A true punishment for a true beast_ , Sansa thought to herself, smirking slightly. The young Sansa that was abused by the hands of Lannisters would not revel in the brutality she had shown to Ramsay, but this new, hardened Sansa would not even grieve his absence in these castle walls. Ramsay had made her cruel, Ramsay had made her like him, but she would be damned by the Old Gods and the New if she did not at least attempt to kill that part of her that Ramsay so certainly thought was where he was engrained.

The snow was falling lightly, a blanket of powder covering the tops of the walls, the edges of protruding stones from the buildings, and Sansa could see nothing but white in the lands surrounding her home. It felt like bitter isolation; Winterfell was an island of stone in a frozen sea, a melancholy silence that fell upon the stronghold that made the snow feel like the frozen tears of the Gods, who wept for the thousands of lives lost. But Sansa did not weep, in fact, she felt nothing, not even the frigid wind that once used to sting her cheeks as a child, innocent in the frocks she used to have so much pride for making, her hair always well-kept and her noble head held high, but her mind too credulous.

Jon glanced her way as she strode toward him, his face sullen, a few stray black curls whipping in the wind as they fell from where he had it tied back at the nape of his neck, and his eyes sweeping over the vast lands of their family.

"I'm having the Lord's chamber prepared for you," he said in a soft voice, gruff and permanently in a low growl as he became the man he was now.

"Mother and Father's room?" Sansa paused, then continued softly, "You should take it." Her words were sincere; Jon deserved more than anything to finally be a Stark after fighting for their ancestral home for thousands of years.

"I'm not a Stark," he answered her, with a small glance, his eyebrows lifted, his eyes carrying enough lightness that she knew what he was talking about; his being a bastard and yet having conquered family lands that were not his by birthright.

"You are to me," Sansa countered evenly. Growing up beside Jon, he was her family, even if they were not true blooded siblings. Back then she might not have admitted it, but here and now, he was all she had left.

"You're the Lady of Winterfell. You deserve it; we're standing here because of you. The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. They came because of you," he said before continuing, "You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons."

"He did—," Sansa interjected.

Jon cut her off, "And you trust him?"

"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger," She shook her head. "I should have told you about him, about the Knights of the Vale. I'm sorry." Jon looked out into the frozen wasteland they had reconquered for a moment before approaching her.

"We need to trust each other. We can't fight a war amongst ourselves, we have so many enemies now," he reached for her head, which was barely below his now, she noticed, placed a brief kiss on her forehead and began to walk away.

"Jon-," he turned, "A raven came from the Citadel. A white raven." She sighed, adjusting her eyes to the ground before lifting them to meet his black ones. "Winter is here."

Jon smiled at this and turned his face towards the sky, "Well, father always promised, didn't he?" Sansa smiled, but she was so cold she could barely feel her muscles move.

"I once told Arya something before I left for the Watch; I remember it to this day," Jon's eyebrows crinkled as he recalled a more innocent time," I said " _Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle_ ," and I can't help but think of how you escaped this very home to find me at Castle Black just as I was to leave. Our different roads led to that same castle where we met again. Now we are back home. In our own castle, once again." Sansa didn't know how to respond, her words lost. Jon continued, "I never thought it would be you I would see again. I figured it would be Robb, discussing trade with the Watch, or Father, to talk about my past, or hell, even Arya trying to run away from home in order to join me. Oh, how our lives have made its duty to be ironic."

Sansa swallowed, her throat dry. Jon's words warmed her, but also the guilt of how she never bothered to know him when they were children ran through her veins. Those times had been forgiven, but she would never forgive herself. "Walking these courtyards was like being a ghost. I was a pawn, a girl with a name that mattered and a body that didn't. It felt so wrong, almost being in this twisted reality that the Boltons made of our family home. Their banners hanging from the ramparts. We stand for honor and integrity, they stood for blood and fear. I knew I had to find you because you were my only hope at feeling some kind of safety again." It felt good to tell Jon how she felt; she learned to bottle everything up during her time with the Lannisters because her sensitivity and being overly emotional was her weakness and they used it to their advantage.

Jon looked at her with sincerity, "Feeling like a ghost in the place where you grew up, that, I do understand." He nodded in her direction with his eyes on hers as he made his leave, an understanding forming between them that never formed when they were children. Of course, he felt like a ghost in Winterfell as a child – he never sat at the head table with the rest of the Stark children, he bore the Snow surname regardless of how lucky he was to have a father who loved him dearly. Sansa felt foolish for even referencing her time in Winterfell under the Boltons as feeling like a ghost. She felt that way for a few months at most when he felt that way all his life.

Sansa again turned to the sea of white that surrounded Winterfell, again feeling that sense of melancholy because of how alone they were in the North, other castles a several days' ride away, but yet she felt whole again knowing it was her melancholy to bear in her mother and father's absences. She couldn't help but feel like a little girl again, one that would climb into her father's boots and pretend she was walking in his shoes. Only this time she would have to walk in those shoes forever now. She had to take their place, and Gods be damned if she wasn't terrified. She was standing in Ned Stark's shadow and needed to find some way to live up to his legacy. Sansa was never meant to rule – she was meant to marry Joffrey Baratheon, form an alliance with the North and South, be queen in only title, wife in duty, and mother of heirs by privilege.

But Joffrey was dead. Her father was dead. As is her mother and Robb. As was Lady. Her dear beloved direwolf. Back then she believed the direwolf inside her to have died when Lady did. But no, she knew now that the direwolf had yet to even awaken. She had learned the cunningness of the lion, the coldness of the flayed man, and now she shall learn the honor and diligence of the direwolf.

She couldn't help but look up to the Heavens and wonder if Mother and Father were smirking at her, knowing all too well that this was never thought to be her path. But Sansa was sure that they were proud as she finally learned strength, to stand up for herself.

And no one – no Joffrey Baratheon or Ramsay Bolton incarnate, no Petyr Baelish, no one was going to take that away from her.

* * *

Sansa's new chambers felt like it was inhabited by ghosts.

Roose Bolton and Lady Frey stayed in here, sure, but the Boltons were so drab that they never decorated. The walls were completely bare, the hearth was cold, and there were cobwebs in the corner, with a tiny glistening of what looked like frost. The window on the far side was cracked open a smidge, melted snow running slowly down the stone walls like tree sap. _That explains the frost in the cobwebs_ , Sansa thought. _Father always said that window never bolted right anyway._

It felt wrong to be standing in Ned and Catelyn Stark's room without them. Sansa expected one of them to be sitting at the large desk on the longest wall of the room, where her Father always wrote letters, or for one of them to walk through the door. She felt a pit in her stomach knowing that they'd never do that again. Her parents would not see her have children. They didn't see either of her weddings, and they never would see those things.

Sansa sat on the edge of the large bed, which was still smoothed out and never slept in like it was tended to by the Bolton servant girls just that morning. She made a mental note to herself to ask for it to be freshly made because she did not want anything that had any contact with anything Bolton. Sansa might not have been able to forget the way it felt when Ramsay touched her, but she would forget the way it felt to be suffocated and isolated inside a familiar castle with unfamiliar faces.

A small object caught Sansa's eye as she aimlessly looked around the room. It lied behind one of the legs of the desk, caught between the desk and the wall. It was elongated enough to be handheld, one end being perfectly circular. As she stood up off of the large bed and walked to the object, Sansa realized it was a wax stamp, the wood turning slate grey with dust and the stamp itself used to be some kind of metal, but it too was dulled. Turning over the stamp, she saw the outline of the direwolf sigil, as unchanged as it had ever been. Sansa exhaled and smiled to herself at the find. She recognized the tool as her Father's, and it must have fallen off of the desk at one point and no one ever noticed it.

Standing up straight with the stamp in her hand, the room looked a little brighter. Sansa had found a reminder of her parents even when Winterfell was all but erased of their existence. But she could not help but feel as though it was a sign from her Father – that although she had not been meant to rule in his place, he was giving her his blessing and had faith in her abilities that would grow every day. Her hand tightened around the stamp. This was hers now – she had to become what Robb never had the chance to truly be, what Rickon could never become, and what Bran…well…wherever he was. It was her duty to carry on the Stark name and legacy now. Eight thousand years of her line will not fracture. Even if she was a woman and any new husband she took would be the name bored on this castle, the blood of the First Men still ran in Sansa's veins, and would run in the veins of any children she might have. _If I ever did_ , she thought.

Sansa moved over towards the window, the bolt almost frozen in place and the wood creaked when she finally got it open. Drawing her cloak around her thin frame tighter, she took in her new view. The snow was falling heavier now; some stray flakes were blowing into the chambers and getting stuck in Sansa's auburn hair but she didn't feel the cold. She could vaguely hear people in the courtyard, cleaning up the castle and getting organized now that the Citadel declared the changing of the season. Sansa had been born in the last winter but spent most of her life in the long summer. She knew it would be colder than she had ever experienced, but for some reason, even standing at her open bedroom window with the fresh snow making her braid damp and the cobwebs ripple, Sansa felt absolutely nothing.

She realized then that Ramsay had changed her more than she initially thought. It was in his absence that she still felt his presence weighing on her soul, as if he was still behind her, taunting her. Regardless, she wouldn't turn around and give his ghost the satisfaction. Even though Sansa could still hear his voice, the roughness of his hands, and how time slowed down when he visited her bedchambers at night. He hadn't just made her his, ripped her resolve like her torn dresses, or left purple bruises on her wrists that continued to burn after they healed back to her naturally pale complexion.

He made her numb. He made her indifferent. He made her stone cold.

* * *

Based on the reception of this current one-shot, I may continue. I have some ideas that I'd love to share, that is if I can translate them onto a word document with any sliver of justice to the series. Again, I am no GRRM. Review if you would like. Constructive criticism is always welcome and helpful, but be gentle with me just this once because I have not posted a story in a very long time. I have about a month off before the fall semester starts and I can do my best at posting again if this chapter is well-received.


	2. Jon

Hello everyone! I have decided to continue writing this story for as long as I possibly can. I have a reputation of not completing multi-chapter stories but I aim, like Dany, to break the wheel.

* * *

 _Jon_

Looking out at the white abyss, he couldn't believe they did it.

Vastly outnumbered and out-strategized, Jon had known in the pit of his stomach that the battle was lost. The Boltons had them herded like cattle and they were the murderous shepherds - meticulously slaughtering them as if the maneuver had been practiced countless times. He underestimated Ramsay's skill as a military strategist but held no respect for a man who did not fight alongside his own. Ramsay was cold, calculating, and ruthless, but he earned his respect through fear, not honor. Jon had led thousands to their deaths – Stark-aligned and Bolton alike. He was surprised the snow was not streaked with red, melted puddles of warm blood mixing with the fresh powder, staining the earth as a reminder of the lives lost. When Jon closed his eyes, all he saw were the bodies, all he could smell was death, and all he could feel was the cold wetness that seeped into his bones. He could feel the presence of their spirits as if their essences were the constant flurries that hadn't stopped even now, days after the battle. _Winter is here_ , Sansa had said. That meant that the ghosts would never leave until the snow settled. If it ever happened.

This winter would be long, and everyone knew it. A nine-year summer meant an even longer winter. Jon could barely remember the last winter; it felt like an entire lifetime ago. _In a way, it was,_ he thought. That was before he went to the Watch. Before his father, Catelyn and Robb had been slaughtered. Bran was just a newborn. _And Rickon wasn't even born,_ Jon's heart ached. Sansa had warned him not to fall into Ramsay's trap, and she had been right – even if Jon hadn't done exactly as the Bolton bastard thought he would do, he would have killed Rickon anyway because he was a threat to Ramsay's power over the North as a trueborn Stark. He was a pawn, poor Rickon, for he was dead as soon as he entered the Dreadfort. With Rickon gone, and Bran was nowhere to be found, alive _or_ dead, Sansa was the tightest hold Jon had on the North. The houses had sworn their allegiance to him, but he knew that their true allegiance stood with Sansa. She was a spitting image of Catelyn, a living reminder that Ned and his wife will continue to keep Winterfell safe. And without a single ounce of doubt, Jon knew that the reason why they could walk the halls of Winterfell again was because of Sansa. _She_ wrote to Lord Baelish, _she_ got the Knights of the Vale to rescue the Stark army from being brutally defeated. Jon had refused to listen to her when she said they needed more men, and she was right. He was focused on getting Rickon back, as if having his youngest half sibling safe would provide some kind of internal validation as a member of the Stark family, as if it would make Jon feel better by placing Rickon in his place to make his father proud, as if that would have changed anything at all. Because Rickon had no chance at survival. Ramsay would never have let him live, especially if he won the battle. Sansa had saved them all, to make up for Jon's inferiority complex and hastiness. Without her, they would have all died. That was why Jon knew the Northern families were truly aligned with her - the one who really saved them.

It was in this realization about Sansa that Jon knew that the North truly belonged to her; he was only half a Stark after all, as if a dotted line separated him, where half of him was a mother he never knew and half was Ned Stark, and he couldn't figure out which side. Like his half-sister, Jon was never meant to rule. _I had been able to keep the Night's Watch under control, but does it really count when my own men ended up mutinying against me?_ He furrowed his brow and listened to the silent sounds of the forthcoming winter. The birds had moved south by now, where they would not wake up with ice crystals in their feathers. The trees were completely bare - even the heart tree had lost some red leaves and begun to look like every other tree around, save for the face of the Old Gods carved into the trunk. The flakes fell in completely silence, creating a blank reality that almost felt like starting over to Jon. But standing on the ramparts of the castle every morning, he knew that this wasn't starting over, but moving on.

"My Lord," a voice broke Jon from his reverie. "The council is meeting after we break our fast. Rumors from King's Landing must be addressed, as well as sorting out business with the Stark vassals and winter rations." Ser Davos Seaworth was a man of few emotions, his beard turning grayer by the day, but he was the best Jon had as an advisor at this point, austere as he was.

The wind blew through Jon's locks, frigid and unrelenting. His furs whispered across his neck and jawline like a delicate secret. "You must call for Lady Sansa to join us, as well. I want her present at all meetings and in all decision-making concerning Winterfell and its vassals." He was adamant at making sure his sister was included because after all, she _is_ the Lady of this stronghold. The Northern houses had declared him King of the North, but she was Lady of Winterfell. A figure as important as she should be involved in all affairs, domestic or foreign.

"Of course, My Lord, rightfully so." Davos took his leave, turning back to duck inside the castle walls to save himself from the wind. Jon took one more look out at the sea of white surrounding Winterfell - the lands he came to know so well as a child that have now become alien to him.

He could still hear the Lords of the vassal houses in his ears from nights ago like a ghost; haunted by the fact that this was never to be his life. It should still be Lord Stark's, Catelyn at his side. It should have been Robb's. It _was_ Robb's, and Jon swore that he would be their shadows walking the corridors, their voices in the Great Hall, their minds in all decisions until he couldn't hear the chants anymore.

 _"The King of the North! The King of the North! The King of the North! The King of the North! The King of the North!..."_

* * *

Jon sat at the head of the council table, while Sansa would sit on his right. At the rest of the table sat Davos, Petyr Baelish, and Tormund. Tormund looked incredibly uncomfortable in the wooden chair with intricate direwolf engravings on the back, his eyes darting back and forth from his fist folded on the table and Lord Baelish. It was obvious the man made Tormund uneasy, with his permanent smirk, his tunics never had a single crease, and he saved all of their asses in the battle. Tormund was smart enough to know when someone would want something in return for their favors. The last to enter the room was Sansa; she wore a simple gray dress with black embroidery, with her black cloak, and her auburn hair in a loose braid tossed over her left shoulder. Her cloak was billowing behind her as she walked gracefully. All four men stood as she entered the room. Baelish quickly moved to pull out her chair so she could sit, and Sansa visibly grew stiffer the closer she walked to him. But nonetheless, she accepted his chivalry. Jon noted the knowing smirk on Littlefinger's face, as well as Sansa's apparent coldness toward him. Jon folded his hands on the table and nodded toward his sister in acknowledgment. Her eyes were determined.

Davos cleared his throat, "My Lord, My Lady, I have received word from King's Landing that Cersei Lannister has taken the Iron Throne in her name." Sansa whipped her head towards Jon and back again to Davos. "What happened to King Tommen?" She inquired.

"Cersei blew up the Great Sept using caches of wildfire left underneath the city from the Mad King's rule," Baelish filled in. "About a hundred or so deaths were accounted for. Including Lord Mace Tyrell, Ser Loras Tyrell, and Queen Margaery. The High Sparrow and Kevan Lannister, the Hand of the King, were also killed."

"If Tommen wasn't there, then why is he dead too?" Sansa asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Let's just say, My Lady, the naming of King's Landing now has two meanings - a King landing on its shores, and King Tommen landing on the cobblestones after jumping from his bedroom window." Lord Baelish raised his eyebrows to get the message across without being insensitive. Young and credulous as he was, Tommen was not a bad king. He just had corrupt management.

"So how does this affect the North?" Jon spoke up, causing everyone to look in his direction.

"Quite honestly, I don't give a frigid fuck about the South. They know nuthin' about us. Our culture. How we survive. All they care about is their sweet summer wine and meaningless flower festivals," Tormund grumbled. Jon chuckled, "Well, it would seem that our fucks would be frigid, seeing as we're the ones who perpetually live in ice. In fact, I think I learned how to walk in snow before on solid ground."

Ser Davos cleared his throat, "Seeing as the Boltons were aligned with the Lannisters, and a bastard of Stark and a trueborn daughter have singlehandedly taken over the North, no doubt there ought to be trade problems with the South during this long winter."

"Singlehandedly?" Littlefinger mumbled to himself. Sansa threw him a hard glare, but only Jon saw it.

"We must be careful with our rations. It may be possible to expand the greenhouse if we are lucky. Within six months, we could have more food growing for the villages. The grain we have managed to find will last us two years. But we need more than two years worth of grain if we have no idea when this winter will come to an end." Davos was right, expanding the greenhouses would be ideal. "But now that the first snows have fallen, getting glass from Dorne will be an awful venture in itself because the paths would be blocked." Davos was again, right. Tormund looked bored, but Jon doubted he knew how far away Dorne really was, or why it held value when it came to getting glass.

Sansa picked up the conversation torch, "What if in the future, we encouraged other major villages to build their own greenhouses for the winter? For now, might I suggest we write to Wyman Manderly and have _him_ build some since he has sea access. The snow blockage on the Kingsroad wouldn't affect him and he could get the supplies easiest. Then, in some months time, the villages closer to the Neck can be better cared for while we focus on the more Northern villages." Jon's ears perked up. His sister's idea was perfect for winter times; it would allow villages to manufacture their own food and famine would drastically decrease if it was done right. Unfortunately, her idea would have faired best before the changing of the season so the people could be prepared by now. No one disapproved of Sansa's proposal, and all nodded in approval.

"Also, there is news from the Twins," Littlefinger said quietly, "Walder Frey was found dead with his throat slit. All three of his sons have also disappeared."

Jon and Sansa looked at one another, knowing that Walder Frey had been the perpetrator behind Catelyn and Robb's deaths, as well as countless Stark bannermen. "Did they ever catch the person who did it?" Sansa asked, "Because I'd love to personally thank them." Her expression was soft but her blue eyes were as cold as ice.

"Word has it that there was a new servant girl on that very night. There had been a feast. Jaime Lannister and his bannermen had been there after taking back Riverrun for the Freys. The girl hasn't been seen since. But not much investigation is going on for it. Oh, but I could only imagine why." Littlefinger reached for his goblet and took a long sip of wine. "Also, Sansa, I am sorry, but the Blackfish died in the siege of Riverrun by the Lannisters. Now that the Freys will soon abandon it once they hear of their Lord's passing, your uncle Edmure Tully will soon retake his place as Lord of Riverrun. I would suggest reaching out to him and providing any help he may need. His assistance might come in handy later." She nodded, and Jon still noticed her apprehensiveness. She owed him for helping them in the battle, and Jon had an itching feeling that Baelish had already told her his terms, and she didn't like it.

Jon felt an odd sudden need to protect Sansa from Lord Baelish. The man was a snake who preyed on the credulous. Sansa used to be the type of person that Baelish used to manipulate, but what struck him the oddest is that she wasn't that person anymore. The man _did_ sell her as a political pawn to the Boltons and subjected her to months of pain, but for her to be still visibly cold and veer away from him, something else must be bothering her.

After the meeting concluded, Jon lightly put his hand on Sansa's shoulder blade as a message saying, _We need to talk._ Sansa looked up and nodded at him, getting up out of her chair, smoothing her skirts, and walking beside Jon. He led her outside to the gardens because everyone was likely to be inside. The sun had started to set already, but Jon felt like the day had barely begun.

He turned to his sister, "I noticed you seem to have another reason to avoid Littlefinger." Her eyes darted around, looking at the ground and then back at Jon. "Let's just say what he wants in return for the use of the Vale's Knights is more than I bargained for." She sighed, "He told me of this picture he painted of himself on the Iron Throne." Jon raised an eyebrow, "...with me at his side, as his Queen." Sansa looked disgusted at the notion. "He essentially said his payment was my hand. I know he was in love with Mother for all his life, and I'm just a living image of her. I'm a breathing reality of something he could never have, and he is trying to manipulate me into giving him what he wants. But I will not tarnish Mother's memory like that. I won't stand beside a man who only wants me because I remind him of her. I'm not her."

"So my guess is, you told him no?" The snow fell lightly, flakes starting to dust the tops of his and Sansa's heads. The wind was still for once, providing a calmness over the Winterfell gardens.

"I told him it was a pretty picture."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Jon, I want you to promise me something," Sansa stopped walking on the path and turned to face Jon,"that regardless if the North sees you as their King, I want you to keep me involved as your equal. As a Queen of sorts, if you will. I want to have a say in the things that involve Winterfell and the rest of our lands. It's what Mother and Father would have wanted for the both of us, to help one another create a united and stable North." Her eyes were pleading, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

"I know how much it would mean to you in order to be in their place," Sansa shifted her feet and looked up the small distance at him. "Which is why I told Davos this morning that I want you involved in everything. No matter what it is. You will be consulted, advised, and you will give final approval." Her eyes grew wide and Sansa immediately wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. Jon cradled her head, which fell just into the crook of his neck, and held her tightly around her waist with his other arm. She shook gently, and it was then that Jon knew the coldness she fronted was a defense mechanism. Sure, the Lannisters subjected her to emotional torture and public humiliation - she begged for her father's life only for Joffrey to break his word and assassinate Lord Stark anyway. Ramsay subjected her to psychological and physical torture. Jon couldn't blame Sansa for having her walls up. She was taught that it was better to keep your walls up than let people in because betrayal comes from your friends, not your enemies.

They released one another, and Sansa softly smiled at Jon before slightly nodding at him and turning back to go inside. The sky had turned from blue to burnt orange by this time, the sun slowly dipping below the horizon line. He clutched his furs a little closer to his body before he, himself, turned back to return into the warmth of Winterfell's walls. It had barely felt like home back when he was young, but it definitely felt like home now. Jon had learned to associate home with warmth and safety. He left that home when it was frigid and unwelcoming to go somewhere even more frigid and unwelcoming. Despite his struggles with who he was and why he wasn't good enough to be their leader, Jon felt better knowing Sansa was by his side. She was right, they needed to make the North stable again, bring all the houses together again and create something better for themselves.

Winter might have come. The snow might not stop. The cold might get worse every day. But for once, Jon felt a little warmer.

* * *

This chapter took me only two days to write because I was so excited to finally have some down time to write for you guys again. Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Sansa II

I'm the absolute worst but hello again! I'm really working on making my updates come more often, but things have been so hectic lately! I am currently entering week five in my second fall semester and my schedule is out of this world busy. But personal news - on 8/6/16 I went to Tampa Bay Comic Con and met Jack Gleeson! (Joffrey, if you're unfamiliar with actor names) He took our picture hugging me and he was such a sweetheart, super open and easy-going. I also got to talk to Sean Astin (Samwise Gamgee in Lord of the Rings, Mikey in the Goonies, Doug in 50 First Dates, etc.), who is a personal idol of mine and he made me cry. We talked about my education, my dreams and passions, and he told me to always follow those passions, do what I'm good at and never be discouraged. Coming from him that totally made my day and my life. I tried my hardest not to cry but when we left I was bawling, so much so that a total stranger (who happened to be an incoming freshman at my university?) asked to give me a hug.

If y'all have never been to a con, I really recommend going to at least one someday. You get to meet tons of people that you have things in common with, as well as the opportunity to meet some actors who you might look up to. I know it costs money, but what I try to remember is that, yes, the guest _is_ working by being there, and their management sets prices, they don't. Both of my experiences at Comic Con were well-worth it because I have memories I'll never forget. If you have had an unforgettable con experience, please tell me about it after this chapter in a review! I'd love to hear about it!

* * *

 _Sansa_

On the occasional night every now and again, Sansa still felt like Ramsay was close to her. His presence was like a whispering wind that came through the cracks in her windows and made a shiver go down her spine. So badly she wanted to be rid of him; his smooth hands but cold touch, his voice echoing in the halls, his crystal blue eyes that he didn't deserve to have, but instead he deserved black eyes to match his black heart. She had been a fool to think that Ramsay would treat her right despite knowing how valuable she was. That naivety of hers still showed its head, but less often than when she was a child. Oh, she had had hope that he saw her worth, she had had faith that regardless of how miserable she was, he would not mistreat her. But men who treat their women well do not haunt them as nightmares after they die. Men who mistreat their wives become the monsters they were always told to fear as little girls, except they were told to fear monsters with fangs and who sometimes crawl on all fours, not their own husbands. _I'll never fear a man again,_ Sansa told herself, _for I will never let a man mistreat or use me again._

Winter preparations had been coming along smoothly - more rations had been sent to the furthest villages, word was sent to Lord Manderly to start construction for more greenhouses in an attempt to finish them before winter hit the Neck in full force, and Winterfell had seemed to return to its old self as it had been before Sansa left on the Kingsroad all that time ago. She stood out on the wooden balcony where her mother and father used to watch the boys practice their archery. Robb would instruct and Jon would encourage, but Bran grew tired of not picking up the new skill immediately and Rickon was too young to hold a bow that size. Bran had found the activity tedious, shooting an arrow at a target proved boring and useless; he preferred to be climbing as high as he could and exploring the grounds where no one else dared to go, with Summer yipping on the ground but following his every move. Sansa remembered how disgusted she felt when Arya chose to pick up a bow instead of her embroidery, but now smiled knowing that her younger sister had likely used the skills Sansa once found so demoralizing to survive on her own. _If she is still alive, wherever she is._

Jon had kept his word - Davos came to collect her when there was a meeting she needed to attend, or he needed her final approval on something. Nothing happened in Winterfell without Sansa's knowledge. She knew that the bakers had enough grain, but the kitchens needed more vegetables, and the blacksmiths had enough wood, but not nearly enough iron or steel to forge a sword. She also knew that Lord Baelish was trying Jon's patience, and both of them knew it.

There were so many times that Baelish looked at Sansa during meals or meetings, his gaze lingering longer than it should. As a result, she wore more conservative clothing, giving him no physical reason to stare at her like she was a common street whore or a piece of meat. The weather being so cold gave her an excuse to wear more layers, but really she just wanted the snarky, slithering Lord of the Vale's eyes off of her. So many times she ignored the notes he would have handmaidens deliver to her in the dead of night, when he knew she was up anyway writing letters or lost in her own thoughts. Sansa had a feeling Baelish was set on getting her alone, so she kept her favorite handmaiden with her at all times.

One evening, a few weeks after being settled in Winterfell again, Sansa felt a little ill after dinner and decided to visit the maester for something to settle her stomach. He gave her some herbs to make into a tea that smelled sweet yet spicy, and he said the leaves would be enough for two cups. She thanked their new maester - who she honestly could not address by name because the maester's chambers reminded her too much of Maester Luwin, and out of respect for the Stark's late maester, whom she had grown to see as family, she kept the new one Jon employed at a distance. Upon turning the corner of the dimly lit hallways, Sansa was surprised by a figure that appeared in front of her. Startled, she grabbed the wall for support and backed up, cursing herself for not carrying a small knife with her or bringing someone to accompany her. Petyr Baelish straighted his already too-straight tunic and smirked at Sansa, who stood up a little taller and put up her cold facade. "To what do I owe this encounter, Lord Baelish?" She drawled. "First off, I'm wondering why the true leader of the North is wandering the corridors at this hour without an attendant," his snarkiness made Sansa's nose wrinkle. "I'm not a child anymore, and my brother and I rule as equals." She took a step to move around her uncle and continue back to her chambers.

His arm shot out to her elbow as he stopped her in her tracks. "Doesn't it bother you that they shout for the King of the North, a bastard son of a prominent Lord and Warden who should have no legitimate claim to the largest kingdom in Westeros, but they do not shout for its rightful Queen? Tell me, Sansa, how do they treat you and Jon as equals if they refuse to acknowledge you _as_ his equal? A trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark should be the one they're shouting for, but the North shouts for Jon, their King, and you are not married to him, so you are no Queen. You're simply Sansa Bolton, Lady of Winterfell." Baelish sneered at her, his smirk ever prominent, his voice smooth but hushed. Sansa stepped just a little closer to her uncle. "First of all, I am Sansa Stark. I was always Sansa Stark. Ramsay Bolton is dead. My marriage to him, is dead. The entire Bolton house, is dead. I never viewed that beast as a true husband because he did not treat me like his true wife and instead, he treated me like a breeding mare and slave. And second, Jon is the one who lead the armies, fought the battle and came back alive-" "But you wrote me and asked my Knights of the Vale to join your cause and we came to your aid, otherwise Snow would have lost." Baelish interrupted her and Sansa's face grew red with frustration, "And I sat on the sidelines while Jon risked his life and let dogs eat the monster _you_ married me to." Sansa's face hardened while Baelish remained silent. "And if you ever utter another word about Jon not being a true Stark, when Winterfell is his home and Stark blood runs in his veins, I will have your tongue cut out." She ripped her elbow from Baelish's grip quickly walking as far away from him as possible, but she was not out of earshot before he said, "But you're the reason why we're here, my Queen..." Sansa whisked her way through the halls back to her chambers. Sansa leaned against her closed door and sighed, putting her head in her hands, tapping her forefinger on her temple. Her thoughts were swirling in figure-eights, different scenarios popping into her head every couple seconds. Her as Queen. Jon in her position. Married to Jon. Ramsay being eaten alive. Her sitting in Jon's place at the table.

Petyr was wrong - Jon was exactly where he deserved to be. But Sansa couldn't help but feel like she deserved to be there too.

* * *

Winter came, but that didn't mean it came quietly. The work days were soon scheduled around daily snow flurries that covered every inch of Winterfell in fresh powder. The horse stables had to be cleaned twice a day because the melted snow around the horse's hooves was a quick way for them to get sick. The men with little work were sent out in every direction for the next five miles in search of old, dying trees that would be easy firewood. Sansa set quick to work with doing menial tasks concerning talking to people while Jon was cooped up in the great hall in private council meetings all day. There had been no other word from King's Landing or the Twins concerning the new change in politics. In fact, no ravens had come at all since they learned about Walder Frey's death and Cersei taking the throne. None. It had been weeks by that point. Jon grew worried, wondering if something had gone wrong and no one had sent any word to Winterfell, or worse, other houses were purposely keeping the Starks out of the loop. Sansa knew her brother was just being paranoid, but deep down, she worried the same thing. In a rare showing of genuine advice, Baelish told Jon to take that as a good sign. "If my birds do not sing, do not fret a thing." Sansa tried to believe he meant it, but ever since he stopped her in the corridor a few nights before, now she was sure her uncle had an ulterior motive, one that included manipulating her.

As if she'd let that happen.

"Lady Stark," Sansa whipped her head at the sound of her name. Davos was trying to get her attention during a council meeting and she had gotten lost in her thoughts...again. A certain snake of the Vale smirked in her general direction, seemingly pleased with her distractedness. "Sir Davos, forgive me, my mind was elsewhere." The old knight tapped his fingertips on the table and furrowed his brow, knowing her well enough by now that something was haunting her, but did not pester her.

"As I was saying, my Lady, the laborers are returning with less and less wood every day, demanding more coin, saying that going miles away from Winterfell daily has been too hard given the heavy snows we have gotten lately. Our supply is getting low. By next month, we'll be dropping like flies from the cold." Davos frowned, awaiting her response. Baelish snorted, "Commoners, such cranky beasts. They're babies with egos. Are you sure none of them are distant relatives of the Lannisters?" Sansa's eyes averted to Baelish in a glare but only Jon saw it, and he looked down, chuckling. She took a breath in after some thought, "Rotate the workers into groups. They'll go out every other day so they can rest in between. Increase their pay by three silver stags a week. That should be enough to shut them up." She looked down into her hands, fiddling with a nail she had chipped on the edge of her vanity earlier and had become uneven.

"Splendid idea, Lady Stark, I will arrange that immed-" The doors to the great hall burst open, the maester, whom Sansa learned recently is named Barrian, came barreling through the doors, his gray robe whipping behind him and his chains of black iron and silver swishing across his chest. Jon snapped his head up and pursed his lips, his chair scraping the stone floor, a low screech echoing off the walls as he jumped up to approach the maester.

"My Lord," Maester Barrian huffed, "a raven, a raven from the Wall." He held a small piece of parchment in his hands, slightly ruffled from his fist balling it up on his plight from his chambers. Jon's eyes grew wide as he took the note from the maester, unrolled it and read it thoroughly. The great hall grew so silent, Sansa swore she heard fresh snowflakes hitting the ground outside the castle walls. Davos looked concerned. For once, Baelish kept his mouth shut but his eyes held curiosity, which Sansa had grown to realize that sometimes, that wasn't always a good thing. Time crawled by as she slowly stood and strode to her brother. He looked at her with weary eyes.

"It's Edd. Men have been disappearing from their posts mysteriously. Men who haven't even left through the gates to scout." Jon furrowed his brow and reread the note from his former Night's Watch brother. "But why is that of any importance to us?" Sansa inquired, when Jon was silent for a few seconds.

Jon spoke slowly and carefully, "Because then they return. Except they're not...them." He grew quiet, his hands seeming to tremble. Jon looked down again at Edd's note and read aloud, "Some nights are silent. Some we encounter two or three. Sometimes they come in groups. Their skin is as white as the fresh snow that has fallen every day for two moons. Their eyes are as blue as ice. They move faster than half our men and they still wear their black cloak." He swallowed and continued, "It takes two of us to take down one of them. We've had to burn them all once we finally got them down. We're running low on every supply." Jon inhaled slowly, "As our former Lord Commander, help us, Jon. Help us."

Sansa remained silent, her eyes growing large. "What are they?"

Jon took a slow breath, "Wights. Humans turned by the touch of a white walker. I haven't seen one since Hardhome. I had to kill women, children, or, what used to be women and children." He swallowed again, "You have to remember they aren't who they used to be."

"But why is this of any importance to us?" Sansa asked again, adamant.

"Sansa, they're my brothers. I can't leave them to die." Jon raised his voice but it was gruffness laced with pain, cracking as he started losing his composure. "But how can we care for the Night's Watch when we can barely care for our own?" Jon grew quiet, his face sullen, realizing his sister was right. "It isn't your problem anymore. You're not a part of the Watch anymore, Jon. Winterfell is our main concern." Sansa placed her hand on her brother's forearm and he looked at her sadly. She wanted so badly to take his pain away, but she knew that for the best of her people, complicating things would only make it worse. "You don't owe them your life anymore. You already gave it to them." Jon made eye contact with her and nodded his head. He crumpled the note from Edd in his hands, walked over to the hearth and threw the parchment into the flames. He stared as the fragile paper started to shrivel and smoke, and even when the note was reduced to ash, Jon did not look away.

Sansa looked at Davos and Baelish, "Leave us." Davos nodded his head, Baelish smirked, but they left quietly. Sansa took a deep breath and strode over to her brother, a million unspoken things between them; how they had never been close as children, how badly she had hated his existence, how much they truly did not know about one another, but yet they were family, and the only family they had left for all they knew. Jon's broad shoulders were outlined by the light of the flames, his black curls mixing in with the black furs he wore as if he was still a part of the Watch. Sansa knew that even if Jon wasn't a part of the Watch, the Watch was a part of him. She placed one of her small hands on his shoulder blade lightly, and she could feel him shaking underneath the furs. She was shaking too, but from the cold. Everyone was shaking from the cold. But Jon seemed to feed off of the cold as if it made him stronger, or if it made him more like stone.

In that way, they weren't so different after all.

Jon turned to his sister and enveloped her in his arms. Sansa curled her arms around his neck and one hand patted his curls in comfort. Jon shook in her arms, but when slight wetness touched her neck, Sansa knew he was crying. So she tightened her hold on him, cradling his head protectively. The Tully in Sansa flared up as she felt heat rise to her face. The need to protect her family and her people was her top priority, but she also knew that additional men would be helpful. More helping hands to gather wood, food, prepare the stronghold for any storms, improve the surrounding buildings' defenses against any kind of invaders, living or dead. Sansa had never seen a white walker or a wight, but Jon had, and his reaction was proof enough to the dangers they were in, especially being the furthest north.

"Write back to Edd," she spoke softly. "But be quiet about it. Tell them if they leave Castle Black and come to Winterfell, we will house them so long as they swear an oath of fealty to the Stark name, join our army, and work alongside our people." Jon lifted his head and looked his half-sister in the eyes, black meeting blue, surprise meeting certainty. "You want them to abandon Castle Black? The best protection we have against the Night King? In the middle of winter?"

"If they're having a problem with his practical jokes already by turning them one by one into wights, I think the lack of decent traveling weather is the least of their worries."

* * *

Again, I am the absolute worst and I am so sorry but I will do my best to update whenever I possibly can. No promises on a schedule but I can promise I will do my best. Until next time!


End file.
